Daycare
by Dancing Darkness
Summary: 3rd part in the Unexpected series! One poor little old lady has too look after one very strange child for his even stranger alien father. Don't you just pity her?


Hey there guys! Welcome to the 3rd instalment of the Unexpected Series (if you haven't read the first two parts they aren't intrinsic to this particular tale but do explain a lot)! How are you guys liking it so far? I've got this out as fast as I can but with the inevitable move back to uni time is getting scarce! Ah well.

Hope you like this one, I like it. Mrs Phillips is actually based on an old woman that lives near me who is really lovely but also despises the odd. :D

Remember to review!

Enjoy!

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Daycare

Mrs Phillips lived in a small village in Surrey. In fact she'd lived there her whole life, all fifty six years of it. It was, as previously stated, a small place. It was so small that it was called Little Hillington and had a population of a couple hundred. There were only two schools in the whole village, a primary and a secondary. There was also only one day-care centre for children under five.

An important thing to know about Little Hillington is that it was a perfectly ordinary place in the rural countryside. It was surrounded by a small valley and sat next to an even smaller river. The locals worked either in the village or commuted to the city every day. There was a pub too, the Proud Lamb, that sat at the heart of the green and was flanked by the prominent St. Catherine's Square. There was also a village parish, of course, and its small church was just off to the other side of the green – funnily enough it was called the church of St. Catherine of Sienna. It was an incredibly old building, standing for hundreds of years through hundreds of trials. The graveyard behind it stretched on into the hillside and the children could often be heard whispering that, on cold night, it went on forever.

Now Mrs Phillips was one of the model citizens of this extremely idyllic village. She rode the bicycle to work every day, a bicycle that had clearly belonged to her mother before her. She also brewed traditional tea and maintained an English vegetable patch filled with carrots and rhubarb. She attended church every Sunday and visited her daughters every Saturday. She helped with community work and was seldom late for anything. Mrs Phillips was, in every way, an average woman that worked in the village day care centre.

She had always loved children and, after her own had left home, she sought work in the day care centre to continue to care for them. That was more than ten years ago and she'd never been unhappy with the decision. It was also a great centre of gossip as, through the children, she knew every family in the village. After all a village is a very well connected place. She prided herself on knowing every child and every name. So when a new child came, a child from outside the village, it was a mild shock to her very structured life. It was a male child, just over three years old and he was quite the charmer. Within minutes the younger staff were besotted with his smile and happy nature. It was this, Mrs Phillips thought, that prevented them from seeing how very strange this boy was.

What first clued Mrs Phillips in to the strange nature of this child was the way in which he was dropped off. There was no preparatory phone call, no introduction. A woman, presumably the child's mother, had just turned up on the door step early that morning, just before the other children were due, and asked if they had room to take a child for the day. She'd said yes, of course, and the woman had offered to pay cash there and then, a day's fee. She seemed to be in a great hurry, judging by how out of breath she was, and there was a slight look of panic in her eyes which gave way to relief when Mrs Phillips told her they had room. Mrs Phillips didn't want to ask if anything was wrong, she didn't like to be rude.

"Thanks so much," the woman had told her as Mrs Phillips reached for the register to sign the child in, "It's been difficult to find a place." The woman had leaned on the counter, much more relaxed.

"That's quite all right. The name of the child?" Mrs Phillips asked while she, mentally, broke down the woman's body language to a minute degree.

"Ah, John Smith," the woman replied easily. Her eyes wandered watchfully to the boy, who had occupied himself in the corner with a picture book. He must've just been looking, he probably couldn't read comprehensively yet.

Mrs Phillips nodded as she wrote the name precisely in the book in very neat handwriting before looking up to the woman. She must've been from the city, judging by her attire. Much too young to be a mother too by the looks of it. Young people these days! "And who will be picking the child up?"

"Oh, me or his good-for-nothing father," the woman replied with a smile.

"Names?" she asked tiredly, did the young not understand subtlety?

"Sorry! Wasn't thinking. I'm Martha," she said blushing. She glanced again the boy in the corner.

"So that's Martha Smith? What's the name of his father?" Mrs Phillips began to write it down.

"No, I'm Martha Jones, sorry forgot," she corrected. "His father's name is Doctor John Smith." She said this in a great rush, clearly hiding something Mrs Phillips thought. And not married! Imagine!

"I see, a junior is he?" she continued, smiling amicably.

"Oh yes but don't call him that, it bugs him," Martha Jones replied, putting her hands in her pockets to get out the money.

Mrs Phillips nodded and gently closed the register, "and what time will you be collecting him?"

"Well, me or the Doctor will be by about four, if that's okay," Martha told her, with a returned smile.

Mrs Phillips took the money and made sure the necessary paperwork was in order, all the while thinking about how terribly odd all of it was. "Well, if that is everything, Miss Jones, I will take John through to join the other children," she said politely.

The woman nodded and called the boy to her. The three year old toddled over, remarkably well balanced, and she knelt down in front of him. The boy was wearing a sort of miniature suit, just the trousers and shirt. He had messy brown hair that it looked like she had given up trying to control long ago and big brown eyes. He'd be a heartbreaker, Mrs Phillips was sure of it. The woman, Martha Jones, was straightening his blue shirt gently.

"Now, you be good," she told the boy, "no funny business because we aren't here ok?"

The boy nodded emphatically, "I'll be good," he replied.

"No taking anything apart, John. You remember what your dad said?" she continued, dusting his shirt. Mrs Phillips was surprised at the level of care the woman was taking but also at the way she spoke to the boy, John, with more maturity than one would usually give to a toddler.

John nodded and smiled widely at her, "I'll be good," he repeated.

Martha grinned back, "That's my John," she chuckled and hugged his close before standing up. "I'll be back soon," she told and ruffled his hair. With a few more goodbyes she left, John waved as she went. Mrs Phillips noticed he did not fuss, how strange. Most children left with a stranger would make some protest, perhaps it happened often? Parents these days, they would never have stood for such things when she was raising her children.

She escorted the little boy into the main classroom with the other children and found him a seat with others his age. John settled down quickly, taking up a crayon like his peers to draw on the brightly coloured paper before him. The crayon was very thick and Mrs Phillips got the impression that John didn't like that at all. He glowered at it in frustration. Maybe he didn't draw often?

That wasn't the only strange thing she noticed about the boy John Smith. Unlike most children he proved reluctant to socialise with his peers. There wasn't any aggressive behaviour of any sort. It was as if he didn't have the time for them, nor, from the look in his eyes, the toleration. He preferred to sit at the back and draw, as soon as he got a hang of the crayons, than join in any of the games. Mrs Phillips assumed this was his protest at being left by his parents at first.

As the other children continued to play she walked over to him in his corner to see what he had drawn. The first picture was drawn on a white piece of paper but there was very little white left. It looked like a landscape scene, except the sky was orange and the grass was red. There were also two suns, one high in the sky and one setting. Perhaps that had been a mistake in his part? What amazed her was that most people his age still scribbled but John was drawing quite precisely in distinct images. "What have you drawn here?" she asked him kindly, tapping the picture.

Large brown eyes looked up at her, "oh, that's Gallifrey," he told her simply before returning his crayon and colouring.

"Oh, where is Gallifrey?" she asked again, children liked to chat she'd discovered. Perhaps he was just a very imaginative child.

"It's in the constellation of Kasterborous," he replied, pausing to look at her. "It's very far away. You can just about see the constellation at night."

There was no verbal stumbling over the word 'constellation' and John barely seemed phased. It was all very odd. "Really? Then how do you know about it? Did you hear it in a story?" Perhaps a book his parents had read to him?

"No, it's real. My dad told me about it," John told her, setting down his crayon as he finished his other picture.

It was only then that Mrs Phillips noticed his other drawing. Her eyes widened slightly. The lines were almost exactly straight and the detail was quite impressive. It was a diagram of what looked to be wiring for some kind of radio, it even had labels. A child certainly should not be drawing that. "What's this one?" she said shakily, indicating his new picture.

"Oh, it's a radio my dad's made. I don't know how to build it yet but he said he'd teach me some time. Maybe when I'm older. Did you know that most transistors are put in backwards? If you reverse feed them then the signal produced boosts by two?" the boy babbled frowning at the drawing. He was speaking to her as if he made perfect sense and she was sure he did, but just not to her. This child was not normal.

She shook her head slightly, "why don't you go play with the other children?" she smiled.

He looked at her as if she was a little slow, "I tried that but they're not much fun. All they want to do is sing and scribble," he shrugged, looking for a new piece of paper.

"Don't you enjoy doing that?" she asked slowly, almost backing away from the strange boy.

"Sure I did, when I was four months old. Only little kids do that," he replied as if the term did not at all relate to himself. He began to sketch out a new picture with a blue crayon, brow furrowed in concentration.

"What are you drawing now?" she asked, still a little confused by this unusual little boy.

"The TARDIS," he told her shortly. Clearly this took a great deal of focus.

"The TARDIS?" she asked in confusion, "what's that? It looks like a phone box." Mrs Phillips failed to notice that she had begun talking to John as if he were a much older child.

"She belongs to my dad, she's our ship," the boy said as if this explained everything.

Mrs Phillips decided it best to leave the boy alone after that. Clearly he had a very active imagination. But the strangeness didn't stop there. One of the younger members of staff, Kerry who was only sixteen and used the day care centre as a part time job, would later tell her of how John had done her maths homework for her. He was doing her algebra and explaining it in a way her maths teachers never had. Further when asked what drink he would like at lunch time instead of answering with juice as most children did he had requested tea with a spoonful of sugar and milk. When it was handed to him he had drunk it cleanly and with manners. Thanking them politely when he'd finished.

John was also an extraordinarily fast runner, they discovered this when the time came for them to allow the children into the small play field they had. It was a very hot day, despite it being past noon, and many of the children tired quickly. But not John, he kept running and running – he seemed happiest when running – and his breathing never seemed to grow ragged. He was still on the go long after the other children had laid down tired.

Though Mrs Phillips would never admit it the fact that the boy could seemingly be trusted not to hurt himself easily or do anything unsafe was a god send. They would never catch him if he ran off. John needed less watching than the other children and this made him easy to manage, despite the oddness. There was also something unnoticeable about John, he just slipped out of perception. She was constantly worried he'd run off when she noticed, yet when she turned back there he was. Where he'd always been. It was highly unnerving.

Soon it was time for the children to go home, most went by half past three, and before long only John remained. He was happily drawing once more in the corner, watching the other children leave with their parents. But Mrs Phillips did notice was the way his head shot up every time the door opened and his eyes roved the face of the person entering, dismissing them almost instantly. Characteristic behaviour of a child eagerly awaiting their parent. The disappointment on his face was disheartening but she had noted, as she checked her watch for the umpteenth time, it was not yet four o'clock.

There was one thing that soon had become glaringly obvious. John's strange behaviour was inherited. If she'd though the boy unusual he was nothing compared to his father. The man was tall, very tall and thin. He had the same wild hair and freckles. He wore a blue suit with a red tie and white shirt, it clashed and yet it didn't. His stride was confident and there was a firm grin upon his face. But it was his eyes that bothered Mrs Phillips. They were old and tired; she had seen such eyes before. In her husband's face. He was long gone now, God rest him, but that war had forever changed him. The man she loved had become so very tired of everything over the years before he died. This Doctor John Smith had those same eyes, yet he was so young. Impossibly young. Very strange.

Those eyes changed, however, the minute he gazed on his son. His adoration was plain to see as he picked the boy up and tossed him into the air, John giggling madly. Any thoughts she'd had of possible child neglect were gone, this man would through himself before bullets for his son.

What was strange was that when John showed his father the drawings the man did not seem surprised at all. As a doctor surely he would know that such behaviour was not normal for young children? She had voiced her concerns to him as John gathered his things and he'd merely said it was 'expected'. What was she to make of that? She also noticed that, like Martha Jones, he spoke to the boy maturely and there was a level of expectation there. Very odd. She also swore she heard them speaking in another language, but that wasn't right surely? From their accents clearly they were from the north of England. How curious.

When she inquired if John would be left there the next day he'd smiled, "no, but thank you. I didn't know quite what to do with him. We usually like to keep care in the family, so to speak. I usually leave him with a good friend of mine but this time she was busy – something about a deadline – and I was forced to come here. I heard your centre was one of the best, Mrs Phillips." He spoke quickly in a highly educated tone; there was also an air of authority about this man.

"Are you often kept busy at the hospital?" she asked as she moved the clear the children's things away for the evening.

"At the hospital?" he asked, it was kind how he helped her she thought.

That was definitely odd, "yes. Your partner mentioned that you were a doctor," she said slowly, this seemed to be a recurring theme.

"Oh right. Yes, but not too often. Today was rather a surprise, you know how it goes," he replied, helping her stack chairs. He paused suddenly, "Martha's not my partner either. Just a good friend, helps me take care of John. Single parent and all that." The tone was cold. Clearly the man was hiding something. The mystery was deeper than she'd thought; it was like one of her novels.

Wisely she chose not to reply, it was best not to, to statements like that no matter how curious you were. She simply finished cleaning and escorted the man and his son to the door. "Thank you for choosing our service," she told him, "John was truly a delight to have."

"Really now?" he asked with a raised eyebrow. He turned to his son held high in his arms, "get you, Casanova," he laughed and ruffled the boy's hair.

"Dad, quit it!" the boy complained even as he smiled.

They bid their goodbyes and it was then she'd realised that she may never solve the mystery of the very odd child John Smith and his odd father Doctor John Smith senior. But, she'd asked herself, why are they climbing into a blue phone box? It was a long time since she'd last seen one of those, her husband and she had been newlyweds at the time. The box was almost parked it seemed, right in the corner of the centre car park. It was almost unnoticeable apart from the obvious fact that it was quite large and very blue. She watched as Martha Jones stepped out of the box and embraced John, watched as John animatedly explained his day to her as he followed her into the box. His father brought up the rear closing the door behind him.

Then the most remarkable thing had happened. The light on the top of the box had begun to flash, hard to see in the setting sun but it was definitely flashing. There was an odd noise she'd never heard before too. Then the box began to vanish right before her eyes, fading from existence itself! She near fainted from shock.

It wasn't until much later when she was writing about the oddities of the day in her diary that she realised what that odd noise had been. She wrote of the strange doctor, of Martha Jones and of the child John Smith with careful detail. Years ago the word 'alien' would've been laughed at but in these times who could be sure? Those two certainly had been strange.

She was probably just being silly. That was it.

But she could have sworn that that noise, the strange grinding, was the sound of the universe. If the universe had a sound she was sure that was what it would have been. She closed her eyes that night and she could still hear it. The most beautiful sound in the world that came from the most ordinary looking blue box in the world containing the oddest people in the world. What a day it had been.

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So? What did you think? Was it alright? Do let me know!

Please review! I need the confidence!

- D


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